I'll pull the trigger (with my eyes closed)

Tape

June, 1995

The walls in Billy's room are thin. At night, he hears everything his dad says when he's on the phone. His dad probably doesn't care if Billy hears or not; maybe he even wants him to. But tonight, there's just silence from the other side of the wall. A silence that prickles Billy's skin, like something's waiting in the dark to lunge. Maybe his dad just drank himself to sleep early. Billy almost hopes that's it.

He sits up on the edge of his bed, feeling the springs creak beneath him. There's an old TV in the corner of his room, the kind you can barely tune in. He found it in the garage last year, covered in dust, left over from his dad's time in LA. Now it mostly plays static, but Billy will let it buzz sometimes, just to drown out everything else.

He flicks the switch, hoping the static might settle into an actual channel tonight. Maybe one of those midnight horror flicks, the ones that don't hold back on blood. He loves the grainy look of them, the thrill of the dark creeping over the screen, the way the killers always have a plan. Those killers—guys like Myers and Krueger—they're just doing what they want, taking out the trash, leaving a mark. They don't hold back. And even if they're gone by the end, they're not really gone. People talk about them. Fear them. Remember them.

He leans back, sighing. Lately, there's this feeling building up inside him, like an itch he can't scratch. He looks normal enough, sure—Tatum says he could get away with murder and flash a smile right after, and no one would think twice. Girls seem to like that; the nice guy act. Sidney likes it too, Billy can tell. Sometimes he wonders if that's what keeps her around, thinking he's the kind of guy her dad would approve of, someone stable and good. And maybe a piece of him wants to be that for her.

But there's another part—a bigger part—that doesn't care about any of that. That part keeps seeing red, keeps remembering things he doesn't even want to. It's like he's living two lives: the "good" guy everyone sees, and then the real him that he can't change, even if he wanted to.

He's started dreaming about things, about her. Not Sidney. His own mom, disappearing on him without even a goodbye. One day she was here, kissing him on the forehead, telling him to brush his teeth before school; the next, she was gone, taking every piece of herself with her. Every night he sees her walking out the door, not even looking back. It always ends the same way: with her smiling at him like he doesn't exist, like he's the nothing she can walk away from without a thought. And that does something to a kid, he guesses. The resentment starts as a small burn but builds up until it's an inferno. And there's no escape from that, no way to shut it off.

He's tried, believe him. Tried to be "normal." And in some ways, he is. He gets average grades, he has friends, he even has Sidney. But that itch is always there, getting worse.

There's a flash of light on the TV, pulling him back. Some horror movie he hasn't seen before flickers to life—a masked guy chasing a girl through a forest. He's silent, but every step he takes, he's closer, and she's stumbling over herself, running with that wild, desperate look in her eyes. And Billy gets it. He gets the thrill.

He reaches for the remote and turns up the volume, letting the sounds of her screams fill the room. It's not that he likes seeing people get hurt—at least, he doesn't think that's it. It's more like seeing something primal, something honest. All the masks are off in moments like these, all the fake smiles and pointless words stripped down to raw, pure fear. And maybe that's why he keeps coming back to these films. They show the truth, the stuff everyone else hides from.

A knock sounds on his door, low and hesitant. He pauses, barely breathing, as if holding his breath might keep whoever it is from coming in. But after a second, the door creaks open, and there's his dad, bleary-eyed, a beer bottle dangling loosely in one hand.